


After Hours

by naboojakku



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Office, Banter, Ben is 35, Ben is so horny for her, Biting, Blow Jobs, Boss/Employee Relationship, Breeding Kink, COMPLETE!, Choking, Clyde Logan Cameo, Come Swallowing, Deepthroating, Dirty Talk, Doggy Style, Dominant Ben Solo, Dubious Consent, F/M, Hair-pulling, Large Cock, Light Angst, Mildly Dubious Consent, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Neck Kissing, Office Sex, Older Man/Younger Woman, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn With Plot, Possessive Ben Solo, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Praise Kink, Pregnancy Kink, Rey is 19, Rey is like hold your horses buddy, Rough Sex, Sex Toys, Silly, Slut Shaming, Soft Clyde Logan, Spanking, Squirting, Taboo, Teasing, Under-Desk Blow Jobs, Vibrators, a little plot, always overcommitting that's me, but secretly wants it, by mentioning Adam have I broken the fourth wall?, gagging, taboo elements, there are 500 of these but fuck it, use a British accent it’s fun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:55:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26723263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naboojakku/pseuds/naboojakku
Summary: Rey orders a clit vibrator to be delivered to her place of employment. Absolutely nothing will go wrong with this plan.
Relationships: Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 77
Kudos: 369





	1. You Fucking Fool

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **inspired by numerous prompts from numerous platforms**

She determines it’s a cold brew sort of morning when the person ahead of her on the street lets the door slam shut between them. 

“Yes, thank you for that,” Rey mutters, wiping her rain-slicked hands—it’s pouring out too, naturally—on the sleeves of her coat. She grabs the door handle and flings it wide, scowling. “City commutes, always a joy.” 

The line is already ten people deep, even at this hour, but the Dunkin employees are pros, and in no time Rey’s at the counter, wallet in hand. 

The petite cashier beams, her eyes magnified behind enormous bifocals. “Hello, doll! What’ll it be?”

“Morning, Henrietta,” she says with a lopsided smile. “Cold brew, please.”

“Nothing hot, then?” Henrietta’s eyes skitter sideways to the monsoon hammering the streets. “Bit gloomy.”

“You can say that again,” Rey sighs, glaring at the man who slammed the door in her face. Forgive but never forget. “But no, thank you. I need the boost.”

“Right,” the cashier says with a knowing wink. 

Rey suppresses a wince. Does it sound like she’s been up all night because of a man? As if. Her fingers do the job just fine, and now that she’s ordered additional help in the guise of an exquisitely crafted vibrator, well… She’s pretty much set.

But Rey doesn’t allow any of this to show on her face. Instead, she pays and scoots to the side to wait for her coffee. 

Wind howls up and down the streets, and she watches as fellow early morning commuters battle the storm. Several umbrellas go topsy-turvy, much to her secret amusement. But then her smile wilts when she recalls the state of her own umbrella—ripped to shreds by her neighbor’s murderous old cat. 

An umbrella that’s gone head over heels is likely to be better than no umbrella at all, she suspects. 

“Rey!” With a broad smile, Henrietta slides her coffee and a small bag across the counter. 

“Oh, no—“ she protests, waving her hands in a warding off gesture. “I can’t—“

“You _can_ ,” Henrietta says firmly. “Figure you’d need a pick-me-up.” 

Warmth blooms in her chest, and Rey accepts the treat with profuse thanks. With a deep breath and a truly desperate gulp of coffee, Rey squares her shoulders and races into the storm. 

Ten minutes later, she stumbles into the lobby of her building, breathing raggedly. Her hair is wind-tossed—and not in a glamourous _this-is-a-photoshoot_ way—and she’s banged shoulders with at least five other commuters. They all glared too, as if it were _her_ fault the wind decided today was perfect for gale-force conditions. 

Kez, the grizzled old doorman, gives her a sympathetic look. “A bit rough out there.”

“Tell me about it.” Rey guzzles more coffee. It’s a wonder she hasn’t spilled it all down her front. _Really now,_ she tells herself, grimacing, _you’re not a damn animal. If you were, none of this would matter._

“What’re you doing here so early anyway?” 

Right! Rey straightens importantly. “I have a package!”

Kez, who no doubt figures she’s ordered more post-it notes or fine-tipped markers, nods approvingly. “Well, enjoy.”

The empty elevator almost makes up for the five a.m. alarm. Rising before six is, in her book, frankly unheard of—who needs to rise _before_ the sun? No one!—but Rey’s willing to make sacrifices for this one very specific instance. 

As she stretches her arms to either side of the elevator, luxuriating in all the _space_ —she can touch both walls!—she imagines all the many ways she’ll be able to use her new toy. It’s supposed to vibrate at a truly astonishing frequency—some of the women who left reviews said they came in minutes. Imagine! Even with the dirtiest, most depraved kind of porn playing in the background, it usually takes Rey half an hour to reach that point. Frustrating, yes, but also so damn _time-consuming._

Her neighbors are nosy, and she’s convinced they open her mail if it’s left unattended too long. If they discover the contents of this package, Rey will never live it down. In fact, she’ll probably have to terminate the lease then and there. Better to send it straight to work, she figures. Her mailbox is large enough, and people don’t start showing up until ten of eight. Not that she knows this firsthand, of course—she normally wakes minutes before work begins—but Kez has no reason to lie. 

Rey barges through the elevator doors and practically skips her way to the mail room. Her mood is much improved now that the object of her desire is within reach. No more boring old finger action— _barbaric,_ isn’t it? She needs to get with the times. 

Rey detours briefly to her desk to sling her coat and bag—both soaking wet—down before grabbing the package. The office is relatively empty, save for a janitor wearing earbuds and a couple of newbie copywriters still nervous about the commute. On a good day traffic is bumper-to-bumper; on a bad one, you’re lucky to arrive twenty minutes late. Rey’s ever thankful she lives within walking distance. 

In the mailroom, Rey flicks on the lights. Her gaze zeroes in on her mailbox, where a small, square package has been stuffed. She squeals with excitement—only because no one’s around, she doesn’t do that _normally,_ of course, the very _idea_ —and snatches it up. She shakes it once, just because, and as her eyes rove over the box, she realizes—

There are _pictures_ on the outside. 

Rey swallows back a gasp. The box is a bright pink and quite eye-catching. Normally, this wouldn’t be a problem, but the pictures—oh god, the _pictures_ —

The Clit-O-Matic is printed in very fine detail on every side of the box. On the front and back the design has been blown to three times its regular proportions, and words like **STIMULATION** and **PLEASURE** jump out in bold black print. 

“Seven vibration functions!” one side loudly proclaims next to a series of silver buttons in the shape of hearts.

“Intense clitoral sensations for incredible orgasms!” shouts another, with a close-up of the “clit sucker” feature. 

“100% velvety silicone!” promises a third, in beautiful calligraphic script.

“Oh my god,” Rey whispers, her face drained of color. Then again, louder, “Oh my _god!_ ” 

She forgot to check for discreet packaging. 

“You fucking _fool_ ,” she hisses to herself, then clutches the package to her chest. 

She closes her eyes for a second. At least she’s had the foresight to come in early. Not that she was worried about the packaging, because who would be stupid enough to mail a _sex toy_ to their _place of employment_? No, she admits now with a tinge of guilt, she wasn’t the least bit worried because she wanted to maybe, possibly, um...try it out in the ladies room before work. Just to see. Just to sate her curiosity. 

It has absolutely nothing to do with the close proximity of a certain head supervisor. 

One with thick black hair and sharp, amber eyes who tends to _loom_ over her at the worst possible moments. Like when she’s emailing her friend Rose about quote-unquote _fuckboys_ and shopping for lingerie that only her mirror—and possibly the nosy neighbors—will see. 

One second the coast will be completely clear, and then suddenly she’ll look up and BAM—there he is, thick eyebrows furrowed, those sinfully big lips pursed. He’ll call her _Miss Niima_ , in a voice like seduction personified—all the more sexy for its unintentionality—and she’ll do her very best not to come in her silk panties on the spot, which—in all seriousness—should be an act worthy of a Purple Heart. True bravery in the face of insurmountable odds. 

Rey does not think about him on her lunch break. She does not think about him when a love song plays on her Spotify favorites. She _certainly_ does not think about him when her hand’s shoved down the front of her pants and her fingers are working frantically at her sensitive little nub, all her senses on fire with the thought of him licking her pussy clean, big hands caressing her hips, massive cock—it’s _her_ fantasy, she can imagine her boss’s incredibly overlarge length if she wants to, damnit—fucking her into a very squeaky mattress until she _squirts,_ which she’s _never_ done in her life, but for some reason Ben Solo makes her want to have the dirtiest, messiest sex her depraved imagination is capable of conjuring—

“Morning, Rey!”

She startles and nearly drops the box. Her co-worker, Jannah Jones, tosses her a quick wave before disappearing out of view. Familiar voices filter through the mailroom, and Rey’s eyes casually float to the nearest clock. 

Ten minutes to start time.

“Oh shit,” she whispers, terrified. Her damn daydreams have done it again—distracted her at a time when she needs her full focus. Now the office is filling up, and she has a very pink, very private package in her hands that no one—but _especially_ Ben Solo—can ever see upon penalty of death. 

Rey glances down at her outfit—she’s really not dressed for murder—and determines a course of action. Thanks to the weather, she’s been reduced to wearing skinny jeans and a chunky cable-knit sweater. Nothing spectacular, but in this one instance this ensemble just might prove useful. 

Not one to waste time—Ben Solo daydreams aside—Rey stuffs the box under her sweater and huffs a few times in rapid succession to steel herself. Ahsoka Tano from Accounting just happens to be passing by at that moment and gives her a confused look, which Rey studiously ignores. Mind your own business, thanks. 

With a deep breath and a shrill, “Oh hey, Holdo!” to the purple-haired secretary floating past, Rey breaks cover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I wrote & read this with a British accent 🤔 don’t ask**


	2. Can You Believe This Guy?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **just more nonsense & buildup**

And it might’ve worked, too. 

Unfortunately, Rey has always been a bit clumsy in the best of circumstances and downright hazardous in the worst. 

She’s even wearing flat sneakers instead of heels or pumps! Foresight at its finest. At this moment she has never been more careful, more _aware_ , of herself, so it should make sense for this task to prove relatively straightforward.

 _Should._

Alas, the toe of her shoe catches on a bunched up piece of carpet, and with a muffled _whoop!_ of exclamation as she trips, Rey goes down hard with an undignified squeak.

Her hands fly out to prevent her face from meeting the floor, but doing so requires her to release the box, which—because today’s just endlessly unfair—disregards her horrified expression and rolls several feet away. Completely out of reach. It lands **INTENSE CLITORAL SENSATIONS FOR INCREDIBLE ORGASMS** side up. Naturally.

An office door across the room opens and shuts. The sound seems torturously loud in the quiet of her head. Like a gunshot. Or firecracker. Something dangerous and startling, at any rate. 

Rey allows herself one moment of pure, unbridled hate for whoever decided discreet packaging should not be the default form of encasement for... _delicate_...deliveries. 

Then she’s on her hands and knees, palms pressing into the grainy carpet, crawling like a baby on speed—a horrible piece of imagery, really—and throws herself atop the package. It’s dramatic, and stupid, and she senses a slight commotion behind her, but Rey is all focus now. She lunges for her desk and practically slam-dunks the box into an empty drawer. 

_Oh my god,_ she thinks, panting. _I just crawled across the office’s nasty fucking carpet. I need a minimum of fifteen showers._

_Oh my god,_ she thinks again a second later, eyes widening. _Did anyone see that?_

Not wanting to draw any more attention to herself than she already has, Rey peeks at the rest of the office out of the corner of her eye while pretending to unpack her bag. People are still trickling in, but no one seems unduly concerned by her fall—except for maybe Ahsoka, who is still giving her a _I’m-super-freaked-out-by-you_ look. But she’s too far away to have witnessed anything...suspiciously inappropriate. 

Rey adjusts her sweater and wipes dust and dirt from her knees. She uses her blank computer screen to fix her hair—three buns, of course, her signature style—and applies a thin coating of Perfectly Plump lipgloss. 

_No need to worry,_ she tells herself cheerily. _Everything’s fine. Nobody saw your clit vibrator, and nobody will mention your fall because of the secondhand embarrassment rule:_ Thou shalt not mention what thou is also embarrassed by. 

(That is absolutely not a thing she made up herself, thanks for asking.)

Despserate for a sense of normalcy, Rey chugs from her half-empty container of cold brew and lays her fingers on the keyboard. She’s shivering—fear, adrenaline, shock, who knows. Who _cares._ It’s over now. 

Today’s going to be a good day, and—she casts a longing glance at the bottom drawer—this evening will be even better.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Naturally, the staff meeting dissolves after one too many passive aggressive opinions are shared, bandied about, ridiculed, and revoked. Nothing out of the ordinary, frankly, and it does get the adrenaline pumping, at the very least. But still, the experience is always draining.

Rey leaves the conference room with a headache brewing in her temples. It’s been a long, arduous day of contacting vendors, reassuring flighty clients, and logging updated information in spreadsheet after spreadsheet. Two meetings and three wasted hours later, she’s ready to go home, sit back, relax, and switch her new vibrator to its most intense setting so she can lose her mind for a little while. 

Is that too much to ask?

Rey smiles and bounces past weary-eyed coworkers, who throw her slight, puzzled smiles in return. Ben Solo passes her in the hallway but doesn’t so much as acknowledge her presence. She stares straight ahead until she’s well out of reach, then sticks her tongue out at his back. Hot but endlessly ingratiating—that’s her boss. 

A massive sigh bursts from her mouth, and Ahsoka, the nuisance, once again just happens to be within range. 

“Uh, everything all—"

Rey holds up a hand and strides past, pink-cheeked. “Yes, perfect, thank you!”

The end of the day arrives with minimal fanfare. It’s only Thursday—nothing to celebrate—and the weather’s apparently going to be drab all week. She waits for her side of the office to clear before opening her desk drawer. It’s stopped raining, thankfully, and gray sunshine pours through slits in the cloud-heavy sky. Reminds her of London in spring. Constant rain and wind and just general bad weather, but when those little moments of sun peek through the gloom… Well, it makes it all worthwhile.

There’s nothing in the drawer.

Rey blinks. That is to say, there are file folders and an unopened package of multi-colored post-it notes, as well as a single half-melted Hershey’s kiss.

But there is no _package._ The drawer is _empty._

The drawer should not be empty. 

Because she is a functioning adult, Rey does not panic right away. Instead, she smiles tightly—dare she say, _maniacally_ —at the office. There’s only a handful of people left, and none of them pay her any mind, which in hindsight is a wonderful gift. Her eyes flicker to desk after desk after desk. She walks with slow deliberation to the kitchen, then the break room, then even the ladies’ room. No box.

She returns to her desk and double checks, just in case she missed a neon pink package with a sex toy and **MAXIMIZED PLEASURE** emblazoned on it the first time. 

Nope. Still empty.

The tips of her fingers begin to tingle. She’s on the verge of hyperventilating. Someone _stole_ her package. Someone stole her brand new, inordinately priced package right from out of her desk, which everyone knows she doesn’t keep locked because they’re a very trustworthy bunch. 

And yet.

She bristles. What's happened here today...that's theft! That’s a _crime_. If that box contained anything other than a fleshy clit vibrator, Rey would absolutely be on her way to HR to file a complaint. 

But it _is_ a fleshy clit vibrator, and so she does what comes naturally to her in times of crisis: she runs.

Purse in hand, Rey flees the office without a backward glance. Jannah, who’s struggling with her coat in the tiny mudroom, calls out a teasing, “Hey, where’s the fire?” as she flies past. 

_Well, it’s certainly not under my desk, because someone_ stole _it!_ Rey thinks hysterically. She collapses into the elevator and bangs on the button for the ground floor until the doors close. Her heart is an out-of-control jackhammer in her chest.

 _Fuck._ And to use an American dysphemism: _Fuckity fuck fuck!_

She cannot _believe_ a co-worker, a veritable stranger, really, is now in possession of her Clit-O-Matic. It doesn't require any sort of detetctive work to determine that the culprit must be either Jannah or Ahsoka or Amilyn or some other female who frequently passes her desk. Rey's nostrils flare. Those _bitches._ Those absolute... _whores!_

Rey winces. Maybe not that one. 

But the culprit _must_ be one of them. The office is seventy percent male, and what would a guy need with something like _that_? Maybe, she supposes, they’d want to...marvel over it or something, but that’s too pathetic to think about. (Then again, DJ the IT guy seems like the kind of creepy individual who might be fascinated enough to break more than a few company policies.) 

Rather than exit through the front door—she can’t possibly face Kez in this state, not when all she imagines in her mind’s eye is the squiggly little sucker whirling away on some _other_ girl’s clit (and yes, this is in equal measure revolting and heart-breaking)—Rey enters the connected parking garage. 

She strides past a row of cars and rubs a hand over her face. Maybe she should stop back at Dunkin, say hello to Henrietta again, and grab another cold brew. The only effective way to stave off a caffeine headache is to drink more caffeine. 

But Rey stops in the middle of the garage, genuinely upset at this turn of events. She spent good money on that vibrator. She woke up at _five in the morning_ for that vibrator! She languished in hours-long fantasies starring Ben Solo with his face buried between her legs using that vibrator! 

Now she’ll have to order another, and instead of checking off discreet packaging like any sane human being, she will instead have it mailed to her apartment out of paranoid fear of such an unfortunate event happening again. She will valiantly suffer the consequences of shipping such an item to her home address, which amounts to the blunt invasiveness of her neighbors. There’s absolutely no way she can survive a repeat of today’s horrorshow. 

Her phone chirps once, twice, then a third time. Irritated, she whips it out of her pocket...and stares blankly. 

Someone’s _calling_ her. That never happens. The last time she actually spoke _into_ the phone was a month ago when she accidentally clicked **ACCEPT** to a robo-call. The words “fuck” and “off” were used quite extensively on her end, and she does not regret that. 

“H-Hello?” Rey answers tentatively, adjusting her bag. She resists adding, _Is this thing on?_

“Miss Niima." 

Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh _no._ Her legs almost give out. That _voice._ If sex had a defining sound, it would be Ben Solo’s velvet baritone. ( _Velvet_ as a descriptor for a man’s voice is a wonderful verb that she has grown quite attached to and will not be relinquishing anytime soon, thanks.) 

“Um, yes?” She’s reminded that he is, in fact, her boss and not just a whimsical nightly fantasy. _Where is your professionality, Niima?_ she demands of herself, and tries again. “I mean—hi?” 

Damn. She’s flustered. 

“You’ve left something in my office,” Mr. Solo continues, in a mild sort of voice that betrays nothing of this inconvenience. Is he mad? Bored? Disappointed? 

Her brows furrow. “Oh, well—s-sorry,” she stammers, not at all prepared to deal with this situation. She still can’t get over—why is her _boss_ calling her? As far as she’s witnessed, Ben Solo can barely handle a touch-screen computer, let alone a cellular device. “I’ve—already left for the day, sir, but I’ll get it first thing tom—" 

“I’d rather you pick it up now,” he says calmly, cutting across her with ease. “Ten minutes, Miss Niima.” 

What—? Rey doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t he understand—she’s already _left_. Is it really so important for her to come back? That’ll add another twenty minutes to her commute. The sidewalks get especially crowded after five-thirty, even in the rain. _Especially_ in the rain because apparently everyone forgets how to fucking navigate in gloomy weather. 

“Well—sir—” 

“ _Now_ , Miss Niima.” 

He hangs up. Rey gapes at her phone. What in the—? 

Fuming, she storms back through the parking garage, into the foyer, and straight to the bank of elevators. She jabs viciously at a button, ignoring the startled look of an old woman sitting on a nearby bench. 

“It’s after hours,” she grumbles to herself, folding her arms over her chest, sweater bunching at her wrists. “He’s not the boss of me after five o’clock. That’s not how this _works._ ” 

She taps an impatient foot while she waits for the slow-moving elevator to rise to the thirtieth floor. In her mind she imagines tossing a scalding look at her supervisor, tight-lipped but regal, as she accepts whatever it is she’s forgotten in his office. Which, now that she thinks about it, is such an odd place for her to leave something. When’s the last time she stepped foot in his office? Not within the past few months, surely— 

_Ding._ Rey shoves herself through the gap in the elevator doors and strides through the silent office. Everyone’s gone for the day. Good. She’s going to give him a piece of her mind. Thinks he can order people around outside of work, huh? Oh, he’s got another thing coming. This is the wrong day to mess around with her, and fuck _regal_ and fuck _tight-lipped,_ she’s absolutely going to blow her top— 

His office door is closed, which for some reason only infuriates her more, so she raises a fist and pounds on the glass. 

“Mr. Solo—!” 

The door swings open. He leans against the knob, dressed in a white-button down and black slacks, one eyebrow raised. He’s completely at ease, as usual, which leaves her feeling faintly irritated—as usual. The reason she can fantasize about his body but goes out of her way to avoid him in real life is because he’s actually kind of a douchebag. 

“I’m here,” she states, somewhat unnecessarily. 

Him and his well-fitting work attire are instantly and embarrassingly distracting. _More fuel for tonight,_ she thinks with a small twist of her mouth. Her hands will have to suffice, after all. 

Mr. Solo waves a lazy hand, inviting her in, and she walks stiffly past him, fists clenched at her sides. His office is spacious—not very many personal touches. A bit austere, really, which on a better day she might consider to be sad, but right now he’s exuding _supreme asshole_ vibes, and all she wants is to get the hell out of here. 

Back to regal again, Rey tilts her chin. “What did I—” 

And that’s when she sees it. 

Right there on his desk. Her words drift off, and her mouth hangs stupidly open. The missing package, in all its pink, **SEVEN VIBRATION FUNCTIONS** glory. It’s like there’s a spotlight illuminating all the hideous details, from the bold promises to the magnified image of the clit sucker. 

“Oh,” she says finally. 

“Oh,” he repeats, with great solemnity. The door clicks softly shut behind her, and for a long moment neither one of them moves. 

Not for the first time today, and based on current events probably not the last, either, Rey’s in shock. The sight of her sex toy sitting on her boss’s desk, displayed so obviously—so _loudly_ —is more than jarring, it’s positively incapacitating. All that pink, and the word **ORGASMS** , and the little ribbon on top. Her brain can’t make sense of it. She grasps frantically for words, but they remain firmly out of reach, and thus, much to her own horror, she stands absolutely mute. 

Mr. Solo rounds his desk and takes a seat. He’s so very big that he appears to _loom_ over the laptop and papers and single, sharp glass paperweight. A giant at a—well, not exactly a _kid’s_ desk, but perhaps one meant for an average teenager. Still preposterously small for the likes of him though. He should really look into that. His back will suffer for it. 

Mr. Solo steeples his fingers and gazes over them consideringly. Probably determining her punishment. Rey gulps. For the first time, she wonders if this is grounds for dismissal. Her face loses all color. She _needs_ this job. 

_No, no, no._

“Sir. The box— _so_ inappropriate—“ she croaks eventually, avoiding his eyes. “I’m—sorry, I didn’t—”

“Come here.” His jaw works stiffy, and for one bizarre moment she’s concerned he’s seconds away from tossing her out on her ass. Either that or ripping her throat out with his teeth. He’s pretty ruthless in business, and she suspects that intensity might spill over into his normal personality too. 

With no choice left to her, Rey shuffles around his desk and stands to one side, wincing whenever her eyes graze the neon pink packaging. Has she lost her damn mind? What was she thinking, ordering a sex toy to her _work_? She must’ve been drunk or high or extremely horny. Like, astronomically high levels of horn. There’s no other explanation. Not in this universe or any other was this a good idea, she sees that now. 

Clit vibrators should exist in only one of two places: the manufacturing warehouse and deep with a bedroom drawer, preferably one stuffed with socks or pants or other undergarments. A concealed place.

Mr. Solo swivels in his chair and appraises her silently. She’s not sure what to do with her hands—or face, for that matter...should she be smiling?—and so she awkwardly clasps them at her waist. She decides not to smile or grimace but maintain a very unimpressed poker face. Yes, that should do it. 

She stares at his desk—very organized, she notes with approval—and then drops her gaze to his shoes. Black loafers. Shiny. She wonders bizarrely if he goes to a shoe shiner. They still exist, right?

“What is this doing in my office?” 

Rey bites her lip. That is certainly a question, isn’t it. “Well—you see—”

“I’m listening,” he interrupts, proving that he is not, in fact, listening as well as he proposes.

“My neighbors—are very nosy, um.” Rey doesn’t dare look at his face. “It just seemed...better…” She trails off, defeated. Has there ever been a worse attempt at an explanation? Where is she even going with this?

Mr. Solo sighs. “I’m very disappointed, Miss Niima.”

This, unfortunately, does not have the desired effect. She’s been tossed from foster home to foster home all her life, and it was only last year that she managed to tear herself out of the system. Never once did someone say, _I’m proud of you._ Alternatively, never once did someone say, _You’ve disappointed me._

They hardly registered her presence at all. 

In fact, this line— _I’m very disappointed_ — _annoys_ her. What does she care for his expectations? She’s very good at her job—even if it’s a very easy, mindless sort of job—and despite the terrible commute, she has never once showed up late. No written warnings or even light scoldings since she started ten months ago. She gets along well with everyone and knows just when to fade into the background (read: most of the time). By all means, Rey’s an ideal employee. 

But he’s _disappointed_? 

Rey scowls and shifts on her feet. 

“Does this make you unhappy?” His voice is subdued now, like maybe he expects her to start bawling. Fat chance.

She grumbles under her breath. 

“I’m all ears, Miss Niima.”

Rey rolls her eyes at the ground and raises her head. She keeps her gaze locked on a point over his very broad left shoulder. “Well, it’s _just_ a package—“ she starts belligerently.

“Excuse me?” He raises an eyebrow and leans back in his chair, finger touching the corner of his mouth. He’s giving her a look like she’s forgetting something important. 

Then it hits her a second time: _He’s my boss, not just a whimsical nightly fantasy._

Her jaw aches as she grits her teeth to suppress a snarl. “Well, _sir_ ,” she amends peevishly, “a package has nothing to do with my work performance. It shouldn’t be here, you’re right. I’ll take it home and make sure never to make a mistake like this again.” 

“That won’t be necessary,” he says with a casual flip of his wrist. “The box will stay here.”

 _Get a load of this guy!_ she thinks incredulously. 

“E-excuse me?” Rey splutters, looking him in the eye. “I paid for that. It’s _mine_. And you took it out of my desk—“

“It’s on company property,” he reminds her, as if she could forget, “and it shouldn’t be. It’s part of my job to take these matters seriously.”

“So you confiscated it? Without telling me?” 

He shrugs and glances at the office door. “Is that a problem?”

 _Is he being particularly dense for a reason?_ she wonders, increasingly frustrated by his behavior. 

“ _No_ , but I would like to have my package back now.” Belatedly, she mutters, “Sir.”

His shoulders rise very imperceptibly, and there’s an unreadable look in his eyes that she’s never seen before. But his reaction reminds her of one she _has_ seen countless times, in countless videos, on countless men, and with a bold, reckless sort of confidence, she says, “Can I have it? _Please,_ sir?”

Immediately shame-faced, Rey suppresses a wince. What is she doing? He’s a real person, not an actor in a porn video! Besides, he’s barely said more than ten words to her since she started, he’s definitely not—

Mr. Solo shifts, stern expression faltering, and triumph surges in her breast in a flood of white-hot heat. No fucking way. Her pulse is a chaotic thrum in her throat. It’s working. Holy shit, it’s _working._

Oh, he is _so_ going to regret calling her back. 

“Please, sir,” she says again, lowering her voice. Her feet move without consent, bringing her a step closer to him. She’s light-headed, drunk with a sense of power she’s only ever dreamed of. Her lips push into a pout, and her voice pitches an octave higher. “I promise not to do anything bad like this again.”

His throat bobs, but for the most part he appears unmoved. “It was very bad,” he agrees mildly, eyes flicking down her body. Not in a lewd or lascivious way, oddly enough, but like he simply can’t help himself. “Very, very bad, Miss Niima.”

Rey keeps her eyes studiously lowered and doesn’t speak. Holy shit. Her mind is having trouble wrapping around the fact that he’s—that they’re— She squeezes her eyes shut. She’s had this exact fantasy more times than she can count, and he’s _playing into it._

“I’m going to ask you this only once.” Mr. Solo inhales deeply but doesn’t move so much as a finger. She’s aware of his eyes on her face. The office is painfully silent for a long, pregnant pause. 

Apparently, he needs encouragement. She bites her lip. “Yes, sir?”

“Lock the door.”


	3. Professional Cock Size Identifier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **silly but smexy but also, like, genuinely ridiculous: an essay by me**

Rey makes a decision. 

Even as she turns and walks at a normal pace to the door of his office, she promises that no matter what happens here today, she won’t allow him to see just how much she wants this. It would completely _obliterate_ her if he ever discovered that the main reason for her Clit-O-Matic vibrator is sitting in the chair across the room, wearing the same clothes, using the same name... Oh, how he would laugh and laugh. 

Better he doesn’t know. Better if he just assumes she’s a bit of a loose girl willing to mess around with her boss for the thrill of it. 

The lock clicks into place, and with a slow, steadying breath, Rey turns around. 

And nearly yelps. 

Mr. Solo is staring at her. His eyes are like two black marbles, and she shivers under their glare. That’s the look of a man who has more than a few dirty things on his mind. He crooks a finger, and she makes her way around his desk a second time, smoothing out her own expression so it looks just as bored, just as unaffected. 

He rolls back his chair another few inches and inclines his head. “On your knees, pretty.”

She feels a pang at that—the unexpected endearment—but chooses to render it meaningless. Who cares if he thinks she's pretty? Doesn't mean anything. Her desperation barely held at bay, she falls to her knees on the floor with just a bit less grace than intended. He spreads his legs wide and simply looks at her. 

_Am I supposed to say something?_ she thinks, heart thundering, hands sweaty. She places them flat on her thighs. 

Rey blatantly stares at the bulge in his slacks. It’s hard to tell for sure, but it seems to be a...substantial size. Which is not a surprise, per se, but definitely a relief. Her daydreams and fantasies have been right all along! Maybe she has an eye for this sort of thing. Professional Cock Size Identifier. _That’s_ certainly a job title. 

Mr. Solo still hasn’t made any indication what’s going to happen next. He might be waiting for her, he might simply be thinking, but Rey decides she’s had enough. It’s not desperate to get things moving along. Things to do, places to go, cocks to suck, you know! 

She reaches out tentatively and slides a finger along the seam of his zipper. No reaction. Right, then. This is going wonderfully. Might as well have bought an inflatable boy toy for all the response she’s getting. 

Not one to be deterred, Rey drags the zipper down and carefully parts the fabric of his slacks, not wanting to just reach in and pluck it out right off the bat. Bit presumptuous, as dear Henrietta would say. 

Still no reaction. Well. Fine, then, if that’s the way it’s going to be. Rey meets his gaze head-on. Maybe only one of them is having a good time, but that’s on him to be miserable. She’s not about to pass up the chance to bring a fantasy to life. As long as he’s willing, she’s going to make it happen.

She snakes her hand inside his slacks, under his briefs, and gets a firm grip on the thick length of him. Her eyes want to widen, but she struggles against the urge—this certainly isn’t her first rodeo, and damn if she’ll act like it—and gingerly extracts his cock. 

Holy _mother_. Her thighs clench, much as a steel trap does before it captures its prey. His cock is already quite erect, and the bulbous tip pulses a shiny red. She swallows at the sight of the prominent veins lining his shaft and consciously does not think about the length. The very long, very slick length. 

She does not think about it, she really does not think about it, and she really, _really_ does not think about it so hard that the beginnings of a headache stir in her temples. 

Filthy images from countless porn videos pour through her head in a rapidfire movie montage. Rey sways forward, all too eager to reenact these scenes, but Mr. Solo gently presses a hand to her cheek, forcing her gaze upward.

His face has lost some of its earlier hardness, and his eyes are somewhat penetrable now. In the dim office lighting, she sees amber flecks. Like molasses or honey or syrup. One of those deliciously sticky things. 

Oh boy. She’s a goner. 

“Would you like to suck my cock, Miss Niima?” he asks in a low, husky voice that does positively _everything_ to her pussy. 

She nods—just once. “Yes, sir.”

His expression falters, and now a faint glimmer of—oh my, is that— _desperation_ shines through. Point for her! “Can you make it messy for me, pretty?”

She nods again, a bit too enthusiastically. “Yes, I—yes, please.”

His breath stutters, but he leans back in his chair with a casual wave of his hand. _Carry on, then,_ it says.

With pleasure.

Rey slowly drags her hand up and down the impressive length of him, just to get a feel. She ignores the tightening of his thigh muscles and lightly presses the pad of her thumb to the swollen head. He hisses through his teeth. 

“Oh, so you’re a tease,” he says gutturally. His big hands flex on the arms of his chair. “Aren’t you, Mis Niima? A fucking tease. I knew it the day I hired you.”

She hums noncommittally—maybe, maybe not—and kisses the fleshy mushroom head of his cock. The skin is hot and slick with pre-cum. Mr. Solo lets out a low curse and jerks his hips. Rey leans back with a little glare, but his eyes are heavy-lidded and he doesn’t notice. 

_No moving, or we'll have to put a pin in this, mister,_ she thinks mulishly. 

Rey braces one hand on a meaty thigh and tries again. A soft kiss, and when he doesn’t react except to huff an unsteady breath, she sucks the head of his cock into her mouth. She tightens her lips and swirls her tongue, tasting his essence, and her eyes roll back a little. Masculine. That’s all she can think. Masculine, he’s so fucking _masculine_. Like bourbon and oak and spicy cinnamon rolled into one tantalizing flavor. 

If she was desperate before, it’s nothing compared to how she feels now. 

Slowly, giving herself time to adjust, Rey brings him into her mouth. He’s all heat and dampness, and she rushes, gagging on the tip as it brushes the far back of her throat. Leaning away a little, she clamps her lips midshaft and drags her tongue along the veins. Mr. Solo’s breath hitches. Her lips threaten to curve into a smirk, but she reminds herself he can’t know she’s enjoying this on a level likely incomprehensible to him. 

She spends several quiet minutes sucking on the head and laying her tongue flat against the ridges of his cock, which is proving _very_ responsive. She shifts closer on her knees until her shoulders brush his inner thighs, working herself in the space between his legs so there’s no distance, just skin to skin. Or, well, wool sweater to...whatever his slacks are made of. 

“Always knew you had a...clever little mouth,” Mr. Solo breathes, head tipped back against the chair cushion. His neck is straining, and Rey finds herself extremely turned on by the sight of his bare throat extended like that. All veined and smooth. Christ, she wants to lick it like a lollipop.

 _In due time,_ she coaches herself. _No rushing, Niima._

With a sharp pop, Rey releases his cock and lifts his shaft out of the way. Her eyes zero in on her new target. She scoots even closer until her chin brushes the seat of his pants, and with slow deliberation, as if tasting a fine wine, she licks the base of his cock, the damp, hidden heat of him.

Mr. Solo’s voice cracks when he lets loose a tortured groan, and that’s all the encouragement she needs. Cupping his balls, she licks the wrinkled skin and attacks. With a quiet moan, she pulls them into her mouth and suckles, twisting her head to get a better angle. 

She feels pressure on the back of her head. Mr. Solo’s hand rests there, firm and unshaken, the other curled in a white-knuckled fist on the armchair. 

“Fuck,” he moans, breathing raggedly. “What a...naughty girl you are...Miss Niima. _F—fuck—!_ ”

His hips jerk again, a movement far less controlled than the first time. Rey slurps at his balls, swirling them around in her mouth one at a time, whining in the back of her throat because it’s so fucking _hot_. Mr. Ben Solo, big, bad, and impossibly aloof, writhing under her very hands. 

Not to say she’s unaffected. The seat of her panties are soaked through, and even her jeans are damp in places. Her pussy throbs needily, demanding to be filled—aching and tingling and drooling arousal like a damn leaky hose. 

She knows she’s at the end of her rope when Mr. Solo grunts and her body spasms as if electrocuted. Desperation edges closer, and with a few final licks, she parts from his balls and brings his cock back into her mouth. This time when the head pushes into her throat, she doesn’t gag. Bobbing up and down, Rey cups his now slick balls with one hand and uses her other to pump the base of his dick with short, tight strokes. 

Mr. Solo groans again and presses harder on her head, limiting her range of movement. “So fucking hot,” he’s mumbling, rolling his hips each time his cock slides between her teeth. “On your knees...where you belong—”

Rey gags twice when he jams his dick so far down her throat her nose brushes his lower belly, and for a long moment Mr. Solo keeps her there, thighs clenched on either side of her shoulders, hands braced on her head, fingers dug in deep by the roots of her hair, pinning her in place. She is so _full_ , it’s hard to know where she ends and he begins. 

Rey mumbles around his cock, drool slipping from the corners of her mouth, but he doesn’t let go, not even when she chokes again, tears streaming down her cheeks. 

“This is what you want, isn’t it?” he demands, and he sounds almost _angry_ about it. “For a fat cock to be shoved down your throat. Hm? Isn’t that right, Miss Niima?” 

Rey moans, eyes fluttering, as he pumps his hips a few times, thrusting roughly into her mouth, ignoring the wet, sloppy sounds of her gagging and choking and the sight of drool coating his shaft. With a heavy grunt, he cums down the back of her throat, hot and thick and bubbling. 

“Swallow it down, pretty,” he orders breathlessly, swaying forward. “Keep all that messy cum in your belly.” 

Rey’s throat bobs painfully as she swallows down mouthful after mouthful, breathing harshly through her nose and ignoring the pain at her roots. His grip is so tight, tears sting her eyes again. She moans and gargles, smelling the heat of him, and wonders if he'll let her go back to tasting his balls. 

Mr. Solo finally releases her once the head of his cock stops leaking cum, and with a gasp, Rey jerks back, balancing unsteadily on her knees. He grabs the hem of her sweater and yanks, and she obediently raises her arms to allow him to pull it off. 

Oh. They’re not...done? Usually this is when her dates congratulate her on a job well done and leave. 

She shivers in her bra—a gray cotton B-cup, nothing to call home about—and blinks when he heaves her into his lap. So very easily, like it costs him nothing, no exertion. He doesn’t so much as grunt or grimace. She sits on his bare cock, feels it pulsing through the thin material of her jeans. 

Mr. Solo smooths his hands over her hair, his head tilted. “I don’t think I can give you up after that.” 

She laughs, but his face doesn’t switch to playful like she imagined it would.

“Did you like it?” she asks, wide-eyed and nervous. Like a naive school girl. Humiliating. And yet his response matters. 

He chokes on another laugh and kisses the corner of her mouth. Cum and drool slick her chin and lips, and she hastily cleans it off with her tongue. Mr. Solo licks along her jaw, and she shivers because _holy shit_ his tongue is on her skin! 

“Phenomenal,” he says simply, and Rey’s chest swells. For a first deep-throat, that has to be a good sign. 

Mr. Solo casually mouths at her jugular, teeth scraping the skin of her throat. She extends her neck, allowing him better access, and he nibbles and licks his way to her collarbones, quiet and devoted and apparently satisfied with the way things are proceeding. 

Rey runs her hands down his big biceps and breathes, “I really am sorry. About the...uh, package.”

“Hm. Don’t worry,” he says, kissing the hollow of her throat, “you’ll make it up to me.”

A delicious thrill tingles down her spine, and she shifts recklessly in his lap. Maybe he’ll get aggressive again and force his cock down her throat as "punishment." Which is more of a turn-on than not, but—no. He seems keen on being extra tender now, and Rey sighs softly as he devours her, tongue sliding across the roof of her mouth, teeth catching on her lower lip, biting down, sucking. 

“Just as I imagined,” he whispers into her neck, nosing aside the straps of her bra. 

The word pings in her mind like an alarm. Imagined? What does _that_ mean?

“You’ve...thought about this?” she tries, forcing her voice to that of someone only mildly interested in the answer. 

Mr. Solo chuckles and works at the clasps of her bra, fingers sure and nimble. In seconds he has all the latches undone, and he impatiently tosses it aside so he can rub her nipples with the rough pads of his thumbs. 

“Thought, imagined, planned…” He trails off, momentarily distracted by her breasts, which really aren’t spectacular in _any_ capacity. But Mr. Solo groans helplessly and licks a wet stripe across one, hot breath puffing against her skin. Her nipples pebble, sensitive to every scrape of his shirt and drag of his tongue. 

“You, Miss Niima,” he continues after suckling on a breast, “have given me quite a lot to consider these past few months.”

“I have?” she asks, excited. He couldn’t possibly be saying that all this time he’s been looking at her the same way _she’s_ been looking at _him_! No, no, she needs to calm down. That’s too wild. That’s her imagination getting ahead of—

“Of course,” he murmurs, ducking his head so he can whisper in her ear. She presses closer, making herself small. “Wearing all those short, sexy dresses and these—" He pinches her hip. “—tight jeans, acting like you don’t notice the raging fucking hard-on I have for you whenever we’re in the same room.”

Eh, _what_? Rey jerks back, shocked by this admission, but he holds her hips down and, once she’s recovered herself, helps her rise to her feet. His hands don’t leave her body for a second, not even when he turns her so she’s facing the closed—and locked, thank heavens—office door. 

He’s right behind her, bare cock pressed to her ass, and she doesn’t resist when he puts a hand to her lower back and forces her down. She grabs the far edges of his desk and concentrates on breathing. _Can we rewind?_ she thinks dizzily. _Just—kind of—go back a second or two—_

“Like I said,” he continues mildly, and rips his tie from his neck with a quick, vicious movement, “you’ve been a naughty little tease, Miss Niima. Forcing me to run to the men’s room and jerk-off after meetings—”

A nervous laugh escapes. The whole office just assumed their presentations gave him indigestion!

“Making me avoid you in the hallways because you _wreck_ my self-control—”

Well, he always seems incredibly busy and sometimes vaguely out of touch with the world—Rey’s just figured he likes to be left alone unless there’s a dire problem. Like a copy machine fire or, she doesn’t know, if the vendor runs out of salt and vinegar crisps. 

Mr. Solo slowly pries apart his buttons and messily rolls his shirt sleeves up his forearms. “Acting like you don’t know the reason I seat you next to me during company events—”

“I thought you were just keeping a close eye on me!” she exclaims, bewildered. Honestly, she always suspected she had, at some point, broken a secret rule and that these meetings were his subtle attempts to keep an eye on her to make sure she didn’t do...whatever it was...again. 

She’s learning so much today. 

Mr. Solo smiles and bumps his hips against her ass. _Playfully_ , almost, which is a bit befuddling as he was just recently stuffing his cock down her throat, but hey, to each his own. He grasps the waistband of her jeans and _pulls_. They slide to her knees with very minimal resistance, exposing her backside. The well-worn pair of panties she’s had for a year too long are unceremoniously ripped off—so long, old friend—and they make an embarrassingly wet _slap_ on the floor. 

Her boss doesn’t notice. His focus is very much concentrated downward. 

He palms her ass, his hands covering the entire expanse of both cheeks, and squeezes twice, like he’s...uh, tooting a horn, perhaps. “You’ve been driving me insane, Miss Niima. I promised myself I’d wait until your twentieth birthday, but as that’s still months away and you’re here now…”

“H-how do you know when my birthday is?” she asks stiltedly, gripping the edges of his desk as he massages her ass. It’s _wonderful_ , and oddly intimate. (Also, she is not a car, but she does appreciate the squeezing.) 

Mr. Solo braces his hands on the desk to either side of her waist and drapes himself over her back. She squeaks and twists her head to the side, and he gently curves a hand under her jaw and holds her still. _Confining, isn't it?_ she thinks, faintly impressed.

“I know everything there is to know about you,” he promises in a silky voice, grinding his cock into her backside shamelessly, like they’re two horny teenagers finally let free from adult supervision. They’re both so wet that he threatens to slip inside her more than once, which really makes things _quite_ suspenseful. Rey arches her back, needing him, trying to anticipate his movements so she can draw him in.

“Liar,” she whispers, shifting beneath him. Carefully, as if unaware she’s even spoken, Mr. Solo brings his hands down on hers, molding them to the edge of his desk, arms forcing hers flat. She is very much pinned. 

“Rey Niima,” he begins softly, kissing the shell of her ear. Soft, airy little kisses, which are— Wow. Okay. Yes, she likes that very much. “Nineteen years old. Born October 2nd, 2001. Orphaned shortly after birth. Shuffled through the foster care system year after year. Always arrives to work on time. Loves every food that conceivably exists but especially California roll sushi and milk chocolate.” 

Oh. 

Rey licks her lips, unable to come up with a suitable response. How does he know all that? Her employee file? Her long neglected social media accounts? No one’s ever invested any amount of time in her details. Reading between the lines isn’t something people care to do with her, and she’s never really minded, exactly, and yet as Mr. Solo recites these facts by rote, she feels something weak inside her tremble. 

“You prefer leggings over jeans, and your desk has a secret stash of hard candies you often pass around the office when I’m not around.” He laughs lightly and spreads his legs so they surround both of hers. His cock brushes her slit, but this time, he doesn’t move away, and they both hold their positions—a careful balancing act. “Your favorite color is yellow. You love summer and fall, and you want a dog someday.”

“There’s no way you can know all that,” she whispers into the wood of his desk. Impossible. It’s impossible. Her details don’t matter. 

He kisses her throat, hard and possessive. “I pay attention, Miss Niima.”

Tears sting her eyes, but Rey doesn’t want to cry again. No, right now she wants something else entirely, and for the first time, she’s found someone who will give it to her. Eagerly, without second thoughts. Someone who has, for no discernible reason whatsoever, taken the time to know her. 

Rey twists her head to the side and catches his eye. “Fuck me,” she orders. “I really need you to fuck me, sir.”

The words are hardly out of her mouth before his cock eases inside her pussy, stretching her walls, slipping through slick arousal. She hisses in pain—he's so big, holy moly, like the fucking godzilla of cocks!—but arcs her back to help him along, chanting, _Deeper, deeper, deeper_ inside her head. He groans into her back, breaths puffing on her shoulder blades.

Mr. Solo pushes until his cock is sheathed completely, and for a long minute he rests just like that, buried inside her, lips trailing lines of fire on the back of her neck and shoulders. She squirms, impatient to get on with it, to be so ruthlessly fucked she won’t be able to walk tomorrow, but he chuckles and gently bites her shoulder.

“No, pretty,” he admonishes, even as the head of his cock brushes her clit and drags a whine from her mouth. “You’re gonna be nice and sweet for me, okay?” 

“Okay,” she whines. Maybe it’s for the best she can’t find words because at this point she’s not above begging. 

“Okay, what?” He pushes his hips into hers, the wood creaking as he leans more of his weight on both her and the desk.

“ _Mm_ —uh—okay, s-sir.”

Mr. Solo’s lips curve against the back of her head, and he tenderly kisses the sensitive spot just beneath her ear. He hugs her tight, arms around her midsection, and whispers, “You’re perfect for me, aren’t you.”

“Yes,” Rey gasps as he bottoms out, “yes, I'm—yes, sir!”

“Mm. I’m gonna fuck you like you deserve to be fucked,” he continues, voice dipping so low it’s nearly a growl. He begins to rock his hips with short, shallow thrusts. Rey huffs and moans and begs him to go fast. (She’s apparently not above begging, after all! Cheers!) “So be a good girl, Miss Niima, and let me _fuck you_.” 

“ _Yes!_ ” she shrieks, and Mr. Solo drags his length along her walls as he pulls out. The sensation is dizzying, and Rey rests her head on the desk to ground herself for a second. 

Mr. Solo plunges back in without warning and immediately sets a frantic pace. She’s jostled up and down the desk, her hip bones digging into the wooden edge as he fucks her from behind, his heavy, wet balls smacking her ass every time he jerks forward.

“O-oh my _g-god_ ,” she cries, head bouncing as he pounds her pussy with no other thought but to, in his words, _wreck_ her. He grips her hair by the roots again and pulls, tilting her head all the way back. He rests his forehead on the crown of her head and pumps and pumps like a man possessed. 

“So warm,” he grunts through his teeth, “and tight. Fucking— _tight_ —” 

She wails, gripping the edge of his desk for purchase, eyes screwed shut against a pleasure so intense it threatens to fucking annihilate her. And she can’t have that, absolutely not. He might get the wrong idea. So she stifles all the noise that wants to break free from her mouth and pushes back, rolling her hips to slide him deep each time, which he very much seems to appreciate. 

Actually, he’s close. Rey can tell by the way his body grows taut, hips losing their rhythm, cock piling into her at a sloppy, irregular pace. It’s wild and thoughtless and rough, and exactly what she hoped to get from her Clit-O-Matic except probably, like, a hundred times better. 

Mr. Solo rasps her name, and she whimpers when his hand goes around her neck like a vise. Not too tight, but his palm covers the entire expanse of her throat. She rams her hips back again as he slams forward, and all at once the pressure’s too much and she’s wailing and jerking, legs falling out from under her, an orgasm—dare she say the best of her life—snapping through her like a shot of tequila and vodka and pure lightning. Which is all well and good, but then—

A warm gush leaves her in a short, fast flood, and Rey’s eyes widen to the size of dinner plates. Mortified, she hazily begins to devise a plan for immediate relocation—there’s no way she’ll ever be able to look Ben Solo in the eye after _peeing_ on herself like an overexcited toddler—but then, better late than never, it hits her: 

_I’ve just squirted._

Oh, fucking _hell._ She’s never—in her life, _never_ —squirted. Not by fingers, by sex toy, or by man. 

Mr. Solo, thankfully, doesn’t seem to notice since he, a second later, loses control, bucking on top of her, body smothering hers across the surface of his desk, and he hisses into the back of her neck, releasing a hot flood of cum. As she milks him for all he’s worth, Rey’s only thought is for a camera. She wishes they recorded this so she’ll always have the option of furiously masturbating to it in the future. 

Oh well. Hindsight and all that.

Then there’s a hot, dripping splatter against her opening, and Rey wiggles because it feels like he’s peeing on _her_ this time, but of course that’s not the case. (Her mind is, unfortunately, now stuck in the toilet.) But then Mr. Solo heaves a great sigh and nuzzles her shoulder like a puppy in need of attention, and she’s reminded that, oh yes, she’s just had mind-blowing sex with her crazy hot boss.

Ah. 

“You’re not married, are you?” she blurts abruptly. The wince comes a second later. _Oh, lovely, way to ruin the mood, Niima._

He laughs and shakes his head on her back. “Better late than never, I suppose.”

Rey swallows and doesn’t reply. Because what if he _is_? Oh, god. Has she just helped him commit adultery? When they sign the divorce papers, will they add her name next to _infidelity_ and the reason why? Jesus, and what if he has kids? He’s older, so that’s very plausible, and why hasn’t she ever noticed if he wears a ring or not—isn’t that something you should probably look for when investing in endless fantasies starring a specific individual? If they’re single or, like, six years married? _Ten_ years? More?! 

Rey bites her lip. Oh, this is the absolute worst moment to have a quarter-life crisis, isn’t it—but, wait. Wouldn’t it make more sense for her to be _his_ quarter-life crisis (although he’s edging more towards a _middle_ -life crisis now, she supposes)—

“No,” Mr. Solo says finally, and on the heels of that, “I haven’t been with a woman in years.” 

“Ah,” she says, mentally deleting all of those thoughts, and then, for lack of anything better to say, “Same here.” Pause. “Well, I mean, with a man.”

His arms slide around her waist and tug her upright so she’s molded to his chest. “You’re—this isn’t your first time, then?”

“Uh, n-no?” Rey panics. Again. Did he think she was a virgin? Was that the only reason he’s been drawn to her, because he assumed her hole was virginal? Oh, the _bastard_ —

Mr. Solo sighs, and it sounds suspiciously like relief. His forehead presses to the back of her head in a weirdly intimate fashion.

(Then again, that could just be because he’s still inside her, but either way—intimate.) 

“Good,” he says gruffly, clearing his throat. “That’s—I’m glad. I thought perhaps—ah, well.” His lips glide to her jaw, and he kisses her lightly. “I wasn’t too rough?”

She snorts. Is _that_ the issue? “Oh, you definitely were, but—”

He tenses and immediately begins to pull away, but she pushes her hips back and draws his arms around her again. “ _But_ ,” she continues, “that’s exactly what I wanted, what I like.” 

He hums thoughtfully, then nods. “As long as I didn’t hurt you.”

Oh. Uh. That’s another common element in her fantasies—the pain—but maybe it’s best to avoid the specifics for now. They’ve only just finished, after all. 

“It was fantastic,” she says, because it really was, but even as the words leave her mouth she senses the awkwardness creeping in. _Not now,_ she hisses silently, _please, not so soon!_

But it’s unavoidable. 

Mr. Solo lingers a moment longer, kissing down the curve of her neck, and she swallows a whimper. His lips are plush and petal-soft—his mouth is surely its own temptation. When his cock slips free, she begins to turn, but he stills her with a hand and gently cleans between her legs with a few tissues. 

Her cheeks burn, and although she’s incredibly uncomfortable with this sort of aftercare thing happening at the hands of her boss in the place where they _work,_ she stays still until he lightly taps her waist, signaling that he's finished. Then her jeans are yanked on, bra and sweater relocated, and her eyes skim the wet mess of her panties with barely concealed disgust. _Really now,_ she scolds herself, _when they say to keep it in your pants, they don’t mean that much of it!_

She shuffles awkwardly to the side as he gathers his belongings. Her face is still bright red, and she’s not quite sure what to do with any part of her body. At all. This is unknown territory. Usually, once the post-sex haze clears and the dude’s fallen fast asleep—snores and all—Rey will tip-toe out of bed and flee like her life depends on it. That’s kind of her thing. _Abandon ship!_ and all that. 

She’s never stuck around to see what might happen next. Neither, for that matter, have the nameless, sometimes faceless men. 

They don’t speak as Ben unlocks his office door and politely gestures for her to go first. She scrambles into the hallway and twiddles her thumbs while he locks up, briefcase in one hand, coat slung over a broad shoulder. 

Should she be doing something? She feels strangely...restless. Her feet want to carry her far, far away, but her mind entreats her to stay put, at least for now. She doesn’t want it to look as though she’s running away, although—duh! That is _precisely_ what it amounts to. No shame in admitting it—to herself, anyway. 

Mr. Solo’s hand drifts to her neck, and he absently caresses the base of her throat. They stand in front of a bank of elevators just outside the office, still not speaking. He stares at her neck—his hand on her neck, specifically—as if mesmerized, and Rey thinks she just might have to snap him out if it when he says, “There’s something I need to grab. Down the hall.”

Rey blinks and glances at the darkened corridor. Oh. She knows what this is all too well. He’s making an excuse—a poor one, a very transparent one—but at least he’s trying to get out of this with a modicum of dignity. That’s more than can be said for her. 

She swallows thicky and stares at the floor. He must’ve picked up on her desperation. Even Rey, queen of infrequent one-night stands, understands that nobody ever wants a woman who’s eager to be fucked anywhere, any time. That’s called being a slut. Maybe she played the loose girl role a little _too_ well. 

But he’s her boss, for Pete’s sake. There _must_ be a way to salvage this situation. 

Rey opens and closes her mouth twice before admitting defeat. There’s genuinely nothing left to say. Well, except for _it’s been fun, but it’s late, so I’ll see you tomorrow with that report!_

“Um, right.” 

Her shoulders deflate, but he doesn’t notice. Briefcase in hand, her boss hastily disappears around the far corner, and Rey is left standing, alone and confused, in the dark office hallway. 

“Right,” she repeats to the empty air, voice cracking, and presses the button for the ground floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ☹️
> 
> **and for the inexpensive price of $10,000 I will stop using italics. not a penny sooner**


	4. Hit It & Quit It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **totally unexplainable clyde logan cameo? mmkay sure**

The elevator doors open with a subdued ping, and when Rey steps into the silent and near-empty parking garage, it’s all she can do not to burst into hysterical tears. Like...like a damned fifties housewife who’s just realized there’s a very clear reason her husband likes touching the male models at the department store. 

Or, well, something like that. She’s not in a good enough frame of mind for creative analogies. 

Her heart is an ugly, flaming lump in her chest. A mound of baked clay left in the kiln too long. ( _Kiln?_ What is she, Scottish?) 

Rey wobbles on unsteady legs past the small security booth. The after hours guard, Clyde, is a gruff man in his late thirties who doesn’t deign to wish her goodnight as she staggers towards the crowded city sidewalk. _So be it,_ she thinks imperiously. _I do not bid adieu to you either, sir!_

The thing is, Rey knows all too well what it’s like to be abandoned. 

She loathes the feeling. It’s tied inextricably to memories of her childhood. Being left behind, left out, left on the sidelines. Ignored, tossed aside, forgotten. 

When people think of bullying, they think name-calling and stolen lunch money and well-aimed kicks to the ankle. No one ever considers that being ignored is its own kind of purgatory. 

Foster home after foster home, for years upon years, and to this day Rey can hardly remember a kind word or smile, a sympathetic pat on the shoulder or nod of encouragement. All too often she instead recalls an abrupt head shake or a disapproving squint. These foster parents were often impatient with her, annoyed by her very presence and yet suspicious of her silence. But when she spoke, they would scoff or sneer or roll their eyes, and over time Rey learned to keep her thoughts to herself. She learned to rely on no one, to scavenge her own food and clothes, to do well in school because that was the only way she could conceivably break free. 

And it worked. For a while.

Now she rents an apartment all by herself, which for a young person in New York is the epitome of success. She has a decent job. She converses daily with co-workers—yes, nosy Ahsoka Tano from accounting is one—or online friends from all over the world. She can afford food and clothes and even extraneous things like Netflix and weighted blankets. (With the latter she can pretend she’s cuddling with an unidentified partner, which is a lot less creepy and pathetic than it sounds. For the most part.)

Men occasionally enter the picture, but never for more than one night. She’ll disappear before they get the chance to do the same to her, an act she likes to call _forward thinking._ Not a very creative term, maybe, but one that gets the point across. She always tries to stay one step ahead of her male conquests, which isn’t all that difficult, frankly. They really don't have any capacity for foresight. 

At least twice a month she seriously considers adopting a pet—hopefully a dog but realistically a cat since they’re more self-sufficient, although generally more temperamental—but then she’ll remember that the pet fee for her apartment complex is in the three digit range. That is to say, far too much. 

She should be happy. She should be satisfied. She should be fulfilled.

 _Should_ be. 

And yet Rey can’t help feeling like she’s still being abandoned day after day after day. It’s a pervasive feeling, and a confusing one, always looming in the back of her mind. Whispering to her, reminding her there are always things to lose. 

She knows what it’s like to be abandoned better than most, and she promised herself years ago to do everything in her power to prevent it from happening on such a grand scale again.

Yet here she is, in this dreary little parking garage on a dreary Thursday afternoon, near tears and on the verge of another pitiful breakdown. All because she let her boss do the old fuck-and-flee. Or...wait. There’s a more common saying, isn’t there? The Americans call it something else. 

She frowns, staring at the Dunkin Donuts across the street, then snaps her fingers. Hit it and quit it! Yes, that sounds right. 

That’s what Ben Solo’s done. Hit it and fucking quit it. 

Rey sniffs and swipes a hand across her face, dispelling the errant tears. Her lips twist into a scowl at the sight of it. Pathetic! Grotesque, even! What is she, five? Crying jags are for impulse-ridden toddlers, not twenty-year-old professionals. 

Semi-professionals. Erm. People who are relatively young and relatively considered to be of a professional variety. Whatever. 

Rey glares at the wet sidewalk and the crowds of exhausted pedestrians. No one notices her standing in the middle of the parking garage, which is actually quite a relief since she happens to be crying again. 

What a horrible nightmare this day has turned out to be, huh? Is it too much to ask for a do-over? Rewind the clock to five in the morning—that most ungodly of hours—and rise from bed with sleep crusties in her eyes and the shameless desire to shove a fantastic new vibrator between her legs? 

Wait a goddamn _minute._

Rey halts mid-stride and gasps. The sound echoes, which—great acoustics. Oh, _shit!_ The vibrator. The Clit-O-Matic. She’s left it upstairs in—in— _his_ office. He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named. 

Forget Voldemort— _that_ man is the real terror. There’s no chance in hell she’ll voluntarily face him again after the way they left things. Absolutely not. She’s suffered enough disappointment and humiliation for one evening. 

Well, then. Her shoulders slump in defeat. The Clit-O-Matic is a lost cause. That is...upsetting. More tears prick her eyes, and dammit, she’s been reduced to a leaky faucet, hasn’t she? Courtesy of Ben Bloody Solo. There will be no orgasms tonight or any other night. (Save for the ones she’s already had, of course, but Rey is loath to count them now.) 

She adjusts her bag and bites her lip, staring at the cloistered foot traffic a dozen feet away on the sidewalk. During the day, it’ll be impossible to avoid her boss for even a few hours—the damn company routinely requires pointless, hours-long meetings that could just as well be simple emails. 

He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named always seats her near him, the bastard, and demands she jot down comprehensive notes, which— To be honest, she usually ends up doodling little caricatures of her co-workers instead. Harmless yet oddly therapeutic. 

Maybe, at some point, she’ll get the chance to sneak out of a meeting—or better yet, avoid them altogether!—and worm her way past He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named’s vigilant little secretary to his office. With some careful maneuvering, she’ll grab her vibrator and get the hell out of there. This plan _might_ work, depending on roughly ten outlying factors. There are many things that might go wrong, of course, but she’s always been resilient. As long as—

Rey shakes her head. Enough. She’ll surely drive herself crazy with all these what-ifs and outlandish scenarios (and they _are_ outlandish, despite her most fervent wishes to the contrary. Nothing is ever easy.) It’s better to just bide her time and watch for an opening. He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named might leave the office for the day, and it’ll be no simple enough to politely inform Ms. Secretary, with all the grace of one who's only pretending to know better, that she needs to “gather” some “notes.” Translation: steal back what was initially stolen from her. 

Maybe she’ll freshen up her resume in the meantime, though. Just in case.

She starts for the exit, resigned to the rain and wondering dully if that new taco place on the corner is still open. The one that apparently sells rainbow hard shells. She’s still not sure if she finds that appetizing or revolting. Could go either way. 

But Rey's abruptly yanked to a stop from behind. Her hands clutch at empty air, and she nearly loses her balance. 

She whirls around, batting at the unseen restraint, ready to karate chop someone’s face off...and Ben Solo slowly lets go of her hood. 

...Oh. 

They blink at each other for a full thirty seconds—she’s actually a wonderful time-keeper—until the inevitable happens: she breaks first. “Uh—” 

But the words won’t come. Her brain is stuck on E. 

E for empty. E for egregiously unprepared for such a confrontation. 

Mr. Solo looks bemused, his cheeks faintly pink. Which is very cute and also very irrelevant. “Where are you going?”

She blinks and jerks a thumb over her shoulder, surprised into giving an honest answer. “Well, Taco Tuesday, that new Mexican restaurant, then home—I think—”

Mr. Solo cups her jaw and tilts her head back so they’re eye-to-eye. “You didn’t think you could get rid of me that easily, did you?”

Uh.

“What—”

“I have tacos at my place. Let’s go.” He slips his fingers between hers and gently tugs her in the direction of his sleek black car. Company leased, probably, although he sure makes enough to afford ten of them. (Rey not-so-accidentally glimpsed a pay stub on one of the accountants’ desks. Wowza. She's never seen so many zeroes before.) 

She fumbles for a suitable response, but—well, there really isn't one, is there? She braces a hand on the side of his car, interrupting his momentum, and shakes her head. “Stop, please. I...don’t understand.”

He tilts his head, searching her face for—she’s not sure what. The last thing she wants is for this to be awkward, but unfortunately that’s where things are headed. Such is her luck. 

Then recognition dawns (well, that makes one of them, at least) and he sighs. But there's a smile on his face, too. She’s receiving a lot of mixed signals here. 

“You’re confused.” 

“Yes, I think it’s safe to say that,” she returns, adjusting her bag. The damn strap keeps sliding down her shoulder. She fumbles with the buttons of her peacoat—a diversion for her hands, if nothing else—but Mr. Solo perches on the hood of the car and gently pushes aside her fingers.

She drops them to her sides and stares as he unfastens the remaining three. 

“...You realize I was doing them up.” Now she’ll have to start from ground zero. _Why_ is this man so infuriating? 

“I do realize that, yes,” he says mildly. “But my car is very warm, and I don’t want you to get overheated. It’s a long drive.”

If she was a cartoon, there would probably be no less than ten bold red exclamation marks jumping up and down above her head. Her eyes, she’s pretty sure, have gone completely and utterly blank. Snow white—not the princess, mind you. White like a blank television screen—except those are usually black, aren’t they? (Oh, she doesn’t have _time_ for comparisons right now!) 

Distantly, she feels her bag slump down her right side again and fall to the cement floor. She is very tempted to leave it there forever. Maybe one day in the year 2340 the alien colonizers will rummage through her assortment of lip glosses and unopened packs of Kleenex. 

“It’s a long drive?” she repeats slowly. Her brain flashes an unfriendly **DOES NOT COMPUTE.** A long drive to what? A long drive to _where_? She doesn’t own a car. 

Mr. Solo lightly touches her waist. “How shall I explain this in a way you’ll understand…”

The patronizing tone shoots needle-thin spikes into her ugly clay heart. She slaps his hand away and steps back. Forget her bag. No, actually— _fuck_ her bag. Fuck this parking garage and her peacoat and this whole damn company. Fuck that pedestrian who’s dawdling in front of Clyde’s security booth! Fuck Ben Asshole Solo most of all. She doesn’t need to stand here and listen to him make fun of her. That’s certainly not in her job description. 

“I don’t know what your problem is,” she seethes, walking backwards, “but you need to leave me—”

“Where are you going?” His voice is low. No longer patronizing, but calm and strangely carefree. Like she’s not currently imploding and _this_ close to ripping his head from his neck. “This is the second time I’ve asked you that, Miss Niima.”

She steps back again, incensed beyond words, but this time he follows. One of his strides is equivalent to at least three of hers, and so when he moves, the space between them evaporates. Her breath catches.

“Why didn’t you wait by the elevators?”

Rey opens and shuts her mouth. Why didn’t she _wait_? He’s asking _why she didn’t wait?_ He must be joking. Americans always did have a shitty sense of humor.

Need she explain? Clearly, he wanted nothing more than to abandon her after their impromptu hit and miss—no, wait, that’s not it. Fuck, she's forgotten again! Hit and run? No, no, that’s vehicular manslaughter. Hit and...something! 

She clenches her hand into a fist and shakes it at him. “Are you bloody _daft?_ You’re actually asking me why I didn’t _wait_ for you—”

Fuming, she turns on her heel and breaks for the sidewalk. If she stays here a moment longer, she really will tear her boss’s perfectly groomed head from his neck, and that will be good for no one. She’s too young and ambitious to be sent to prison. Her skin is also very sensitive; the stifling air of a cell will no doubt give her hives. She’s worked hard for her complexion, damnit! 

(Hit and jump— _that’s_ the one! Isn’t it?) 

Her steps don’t falter, not even when she remembers her bag on the ground. Her bag, with her keys and cell phone and migraine pills. Her fists clench again, nails digging deep furrows in the skin of her palms. She’s not going back. For once, _she_ will do the abandoning. She will be the abandonee! 

An arm hooks around her waist and promptly lifts her right off her feet. She kicks wildly, mouth open but soundless. It’s not often she’s shocked speechless but—

 _“What the fuck!”_

Ah. Never mind. 

“Oh, hush,” Mr. Solo mutters, carrying her back to his car. No matter how much she squirms, his grip only tightens, and despite her enthusiastic flailing she’s no more closer to the floor than she is to the ceiling. 

“Set me down!” she demands breathlessly. “Mr. Solo, I—”

“I think we’re past the point of titles, don’t you think?” He grunts and shifts her to his hip. “Call me Ben.”

“Clyde!” she cries, zeroing in on the security guard. The man flips a page in his magazine and glances up. His expression doesn’t change when she waves furiously and gestures at herself.

“Well,” Mr. Solo huffs, “that’s close, I suppose—”

“Clyde! _Help me!_ ” Rey swings her legs, attempting to throw her boss off-balance, but he doesn’t so much as stumble. “I’m being kidnapped! Clyde—”

But Clyde simply licks the tip of his finger and turns the page. He must be reading Sports Illustrated or something. He doesn’t seem like the Playboy type. Nothing on those pages could possibly be more riveting than the kidnapping effort happening right in front of his very eyes! 

“Clyde, _please!_ ” she shrieks, her face reddening. “He’s—he’s—”

It’s no use. Clyde is absolutely not interested. In fact, he seems more impressed with the laces of his steel-toed boots than with her dire circumstances. She makes a mental note never to call on him for assistance in the future. 

_Thanks for nothing,_ she thinks bitterly. 

Mr. Solo—or is it truly _Ben_ now?—sets her down, and she immediately tries to escape. But the car next to his—a late model Corvette—is parked far too close, and he uses his body to box her against the side. She shoves fruitlessly at his hips, but he simply leans his forearms on either side of her head and waits with a patience that, she has to admit, seems formidable. 

“This is attempted kidnapping,” she informs him primly. 

“Maybe,” he says, reasonably enough. “Will you stay still and let me open the door?”

She pretends to consider it. “Will I stay still while you force me into your car and drive me who knows where to do who knows what with me? Hmm.”

Ben rolls his eyes and dips his head low so his lips brush her cheek. “There’s nothing _attempted_ about this kidnapping, love. You’ll get in this car.”

“Or what?” she challenges, biting her lip to keep from screaming. 

This close, she remembers everything he said to her when he had her pinned to his desk. All the little details. Her harmless office shenanigans. She remembers, and her throat tightens. Why would he tell her all that? It doesn’t seem fair. In fact, it seems pretty manipulative. He memorized all her details only to toss them aside as soon as he got in her pants. 

Ben smiles humorlessly and opens the back door of his Mercedes. He tugs her inside, slams the door shut as soon as her feet clear the gap, and slides into the driver’s seat. The ignition’s been running for some time, she realizes—the engine’s frighteningly quiet. One of those remote starters, apparently. 

Like he warned, the interior is toasty warm. Comfortable, for now. Rey pulls at the cuffs of her coat, debating an exit strategy. 

“Why—” she begins, then abruptly laughs. This is _absurd._ “Why are you up _there_ while I’m—”

“Rey.” Ben drums his fingers on the steering wheel. He’s staring out of the windshield. “There are some things we need to get straight.”

Is that...the first time he's called her by name? 

She presses her nose against the window and squints. Clyde is still sitting inside the security booth. He blinks slowly and sips from a gigantic thermos. Fucking Clyde.

“...Are you listening to me?”

Rey huffs and leans back in the seat. It’s cushy and roomy and— “Are these seats heated?” 

She catches movement in the rearview mirror. His eyes have rolled skyward, and his lips move soundlessly like he’s asking for guidance. She stifles another laugh. Perhaps this situation should be terrifying. But Ben Solo has never frightened her. He’s intimidating, sure, with his height and his tendency to loom and scowl, but she’s never actually been _afraid_ of him. Nervous, yes. Uneasy, absolutely. But for whatever reason, her fearlessness towards him hasn’t changed...despite the attempted kidnapping currently taking place. 

“I’m listening,” she says finally, crossing her arms. That feeling of abandonment lingers. It’s not one she’s likely to forget. 

“I put you in the backseat because it’s not wise for me to be near you right now.”

“Oh?” Rey straightens cautiously. 

His eyes are fixed on a car across the garage. “This is all very new, and I don’t want to smother you.”

Swallowing, Rey peers over her shoulder. Is there a pillow or something back there that she should be aware of? A thick piece of cloth, perhaps? Maybe her instincts are all wrong. Maybe she _should_ be scared of him. 

“I don’t want to frighten you, either,” he says as if reading her mind, and for the first time she detects a hint of nervousness. His fingers tap-tap-tap on the wheel. “That is the absolute last thing I want to do to you.”

“Mr.—” she begins, then swiftly changes tack. “Ben. I still don’t understand.” 

“I know,” he says gruffly. “That’s part of the problem.”

“Well, can you maybe explain?” She scratches the side of her head uncomfortably. “I’m not sure why you’re bothering with all...this.” She waves a limp hand around, encompassing not just the car and garage but their relationship. Or whatever.

Ben drags a hand through his hair, ruffling the ends so they stick in all directions. She smiles faintly. He looks like a little boy who’s just woken from a particularly rejuvenating nap.

“I want to apologize.”

Rey’s eyebrows shoot to her hairline. She doesn’t think there’s ever been a time when a man has apologized to her unprompted. Or at all. 

This ought to be good.

He slowly turns around in his seat, but as she’s directly behind him, he can’t see very much of her. “Can you please move over?”

Rey scoots to the side, scowling. “Why? Maybe _you_ should be the one to—”

“I need to see you,” he murmurs, his eyes drifting over her face. “That’s all.”

She swallows thickly. Oh. 

“It seems you’re under the impression that—” He hesitates, jaw twitching. “That I was going to leave.”

“Leave what?” she asks, confused. 

“Leave you in the office. Alone.” 

Right. She’s almost forgotten all about that. So much has happened since then. Clyde and kidnapping and alien invaders from 2340. 

“Oh.” She lowers her eyes and stares at the center console. Embarrassment threatens to steal her voice. “You don’t have to defend yourself. I get it.”

“No,” he says roughly, still watching her face. “No, I don’t think you do.” 

Rey eyes him curiously as he reaches into the passenger seat and extracts an object from his nice leather bag. It’s a box. No, a package, and it’s bright pink and—

Oh hell. 

“My Clit-O-Matic,” she says, smiling nervously. Her hands itch to grab the box and tuck it out of sight. But that would be rude, and she’s trying her best to be civil. 

“This is what I went back for,” he explains, holding out the box. “I know how badly you…”

She blushes fiercely and snatches her possession away, civility be damned. Cradling it to her chest, she stares suspiciously at her boss. “But your office was in the opposite direction. I saw you walk towards the stairwell.”

Now it’s his turn to shy away. The tips of his ears flush pink, and a kernel of warmth ignites in her chest at the sight. It shouldn’t be adorable. 

“Yes, well.” Ben clears his throat. “I had to take care of something first.” 

She waits patiently. 

“...In the bathroom.”

Ah. Enough said. Cleanliness is next to godliness or whatever, and they sure did make a mess. He cleaned her up when they were finished, but she doesn't actually recall him taking care of himself. 

“I never intended to leave you,” he says earnestly. “I thought we were on the same page. I thought you would wait for me there, but when I returned—”

He cuts himself off. She stares at him, reworking the narrative in her brain. All this time—granted, it’s been like twenty minutes, but still—all this time she’s believed that Ben meant to find the quickest escape route and vanish. He would never mention their rendezvous again, and she would be forced to live with the knowledge that her incredibly handsome superior deliberately stole her sex toy so he could—

“Hit it and quit it!” she exclaims, straightening. “ _That’s_ what it’s called. I knew it had to be _hit_ and something.” 

Ben licks his lips, looking pained. “Is that what you think happened? That I—”

“Hit it and quit it?” she supplies helpfully. 

He shuts his eyes. “Please stop saying that, Rey.”

“Oh. Um, sorry.” But then she pauses, frowning. She’s not. She’s _not_ sorry, actually, and it annoys her that she feels the need to apologize. It's not her job to make things better right now. She's not the one in the wrong here. 

“You know what? I rescind that apology. I’m _not_ sorry. Why? Because that’s what it looked like.” Rey tosses the pink box beside her on the seat and points a finger in Ben’s face. “You made me believe I was just some... _toy_ you wanted to play with and then discard. That’s not okay. You turned around and left, and you didn't _say_ anything! What was I supposed to think? That's not okay!" she repeats, her voice surging high with upset. 

“I’m sorry,” he says hoarsely, catching her finger before she has time to pull it out of reach. “Really. I’m so sorry, Rey. I never want you to feel like I don't need you.”

Rey flushes an alarming shade of chartreuse. Definitely did not expect _that_. What does he mean by _need_? 

“I will tell you a hundred times. I’m sorry for leaving you alone. I’m sorry for not making it clear that I’m not going anywhere.” His throat flexes, and he tugs on her finger. Alarmed, she wonders if he intends to nibble on it. Cannibalism is rare these days, but not extinct. “Now that you have me, I have to be honest.”

She gulps. “Um—”

“Trust me when I say it'll be impossible to get rid of me.” He traces a vein in her wrist, eyes impenetrable. 

“What do you mean by that?” Sounds ominous. Not to mention he kind of looks like a serial killer. More mixed signals. 

“Rey.” He laughs, exasperated. “Have you wondered, even for just a second, _why_ I know all your little details?”

There’s a sudden lump in her throat. _All my little details._ How does he know that phrasing? The only place she uses it is inside her own head. 

“Why?” she manages, blinking quickly. “Why do you know all that?”

“Take a wild guess,” he says wryly. Gently holding her wrist, he brings her hand forward and kisses the tip of her finger, lips soft and strangely hesitant. “You’ve been starring in my dreams for the past several months. Which is inappropriate of me to admit, I suppose, but ask me if I care.”

“But—” She wheezes, eyes wide and bewildered. Is this some sort of joke? “I assumed you hated me. _Loathed!_ ”

He laughs again, and the rare sight of an unrestrained smile on his face, a face that’s usually rather severe and unapproachable, sends a bolt of pure adrenaline through her veins. “Rey, when you walked into my office ten months ago, I was fucking smitten.”

Have they run out of oxygen, perchance? Maybe the Mercedes’ filtration system broke sometime in the last ten minutes and now they are slowly suffocating to death. Seems like a logical reason for her breathlessness. 

“You never—you never—"

“Of course not. You were my subordinate. It would be a gross misuse of power if I took advantage of you, Rey.” His eyes trail down her body, and the heat in them rivals the heat seeping through the leather seats. “You’re so young, and so small…”

She vividly remembers him pounding into her from behind, his huge hands cupping her hips, her body swaying on the desk with the force of his thrusts. Rey vaguely recalls some of the senseless words he managed through his grunting. _Small_ and _warm_ and _tight_ were just a few.

“Oh,” she mumbles, tugging on her hand. He kisses the tip of her index finger, her thumb, her pinkie, until she stops fidgeting. “So that’s the big appeal, is it? The fact that you’ve fucked a young subordinate on company grounds.”

“That’s not it at all,” he says sternly, “and you know it.”

She’s not really sure _what_ she knows. Apparently they’ve had misunderstanding after misunderstanding. It’s hard to know the truth when all the lies are so tangled up together. 

“You’re kind,” Ben says suddenly, and she looks up. His eyes are on her again, and not for the first time tonight she feels _seen._ “You’re thoughtful and selfless and funny. You’re always making the rest of the office laugh. Perhaps I’ve never told you that you’re good for morale, but it’s true.”

She smiles a little. 

“How could anyone look at you and not be impressed?” Ben shakes his head. “As soon as you walk into a room, I find myself wanting to do better. _Be_ better. Sometimes I’ll schedule a meeting that could very well have been a simple email—”

 _I knew it,_ she thinks triumphantly.

“—but unlike you, Rey, I’m selfish.” He kisses her palm and holds it against his cheek. “I get very grumpy if I don’t catch at least a glimpse of you every hour. Beverly pencils in mandatory R.N. breaks on my schedule.”

At her puzzled expression, he clarifies, “Rey Niima.” 

Beverly, his receptionist. She always did wonder why the elderly woman seemed to be making eyes at her throughout the day. Rey thought perhaps the old biddy might’ve had a little bit of a crush on her, to be quite honest. 

It makes sense now. Crush, yes. Wrong person, though. 

“Rey Niima breaks? You’re—” She snorts and quickly covers her mouth. “You’re ridiculous.” 

He shrugs, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Maybe I am. But I hope you know that I am sorry and that I’m...willing to pursue this, if you’re interested.”

“Pursue—” Rey’s heart surges into her throat. No longer an ugly lump of clay but a miniature sun. (Or some other such nonsense.) “You mean, pursue a relationship?”

“Yes.”

“With _me._ ”

“Yes, with you.” Ben shakes his head again, eyes rolling skyward as if seeking more guidance. 

She smacks his bicep with her free hand. “Cut it out!”

“I’m sorry, love,” he murmurs, pursing his lips. His gaze drops to her mouth. “You know what I wish?”

“You wish for me to _also_ have heated seats?” She smiles innocently, but it falters when she realizes—“Oh, but first you’ll have to buy me a car.”

He blinks slowly. “Good guess, but no. I wish you were up here with me.”

Rey sighs and feigns exasperation. “Well, you’re the one who shoved me back here to begin with, if you’ll recall.”

Ben grumbles and flings open his door. A second later he’s grabbing her hips and towing her towards him. Her leggings make it easy for him to slide her to the edge of the leather seat. She smacks his shoulder again. "You're being very handsy today, sir."

With a grin, he hikes her knees up over his hips. His arms go around her waist, and for a long minute they just stare at one another. Part of Rey is still reluctant to forgive him--a very substantial part, in fact. Her trauma is rooted quite firmly in abandonment, and so she suspects he'll have to work very hard to earn even a crumb of genuine forgiveness. 

In her romance novels, the men must always grovel for at _least_ two chapters, or the book isn't worth her time. 

Ben must read some of what she's thinking on her face, because he bridges the gap and kisses her with a bruising sort of hunger that's nearly terrifying in its intensity. His hands dip below her sweater and cling to her hips. With a sigh, he drops heavy kisses on her lips and down the curve of her neck. For several minutes, they’re completely lost in each other. 

At one point, Ben pulls back on a low moan and whispers, “I’m going to bring you home and fuck you in my nice big bed.”

Rey shivers, and she twines herself tighter around his body. She would like that. She would like that very much. Fuck her until her thighs are bruised and her legs are useless. 

“Home?” she mumbles, sucking on his bottom lip. He tastes like coffee and spearmint. Ben-scent. 

He nips a line of bruising little kisses down her throat. “You think I’m going to let you live alone now? I want to know you’re safe when I’m not with you.”

Normally, Rey would balk at this streak of possessiveness. From any other man, it would be suffocating. But Ben isn’t just any man. It's fast, but that's the only way she's ever learned how to live. 

“Ask me.”

“Hmm?” He massages her thighs, mouth roving along her jaw. His teeth graze her skin, and she shivers. 

Her breath leaves her in a staticky gust. “Ask me to move in with you, Ben.”

“Will you—”

“ _Yes._ ” 

Okay, so maybe he's already earning a bit more than a _crumb_ of forgiveness. 

Ben laughs and lifts her into his arms. She wraps her legs around his waist and continues kissing his neck, nibbling on his earlobe, and just generally enjoying the taste of him, while he rounds the hood of the car and opens the passenger side door. Out of the corner of one blurry eye, she sees Clyde watching them.

“We have an audience,” she manages between kisses.

Ben grunts and kisses her one last time, mouth consuming hers. When he catches Clyde’s eye, the two men exchange a knowing nod.

“What was that?” she asks suspiciously.

He adjusts the neckline of her sweater and kisses her temple. “That, my love, was an acknowledgment.”

 _My love, my love, my love._ “Meaning…?”

“I told him not to interfere should I ever get my hands on you.”

She splutters incoherently for a moment. “You did _what_?” 

He shrugs and straightens the lapels of his suit jacket. “He agreed immediately.”

“Probably because he knows who you _are_.” Benjamin Solo, CEO-in-training for Skywalker Enterprises. 

He simply smiles and tweaks her nose. “He’s a good man.”

Rey splutters some more. “What if you _actually_ intended to kidnap me? He doesn’t know you from Adam—“

“From who?” he frowns, fingers pausing on his tie.

Oh, for the love of— “No, it’s just— It’s a _saying_ —”

“Is there someone named Adam I should be worried about?” Ben’s fingers tighten on the door frame. He looks murderous. 

She pales, her mind blaring, _Abort! Abort!_ “No, no! That’s not—”

He breaks out into another shit-eating grin. “I’m kidding, Rey. I know what you mean. Anyway, Clyde and I go way back." He lightly touches her cheek. "We have a mutual friend.”

“Oh,” she says, relieved. She doesn’t want to make Ben jealous. Although….

He _did_ look really hot with his jaw all clenched and his eyes like black holes. When she said the name Adam, his back straightened and seemed somehow to add an inch or two more of height, which is impressive. Very scary mafia man. She could absolutely get behind that. 

“I’ve mentioned you to Clyde several times.” Ben coughs, looking away. “Or maybe...more than that.”

“Really?” She smirks and pats his shoulder, an idea flaring to life. “Does that mean once we get some alcohol in you—?”

He narrows his eyes threateningly. “Don’t even think about it.”

“Oh, I’m thinking plenty,” she teases.

“I’m warning you, Miss Niima.”

She quickly darts forward and plants a chaste kiss on his mouth. “You’ll never see me coming, Mr. Solo.”

“Oh, I doubt that.” He clicks her seatbelt into place and closes the door before his words have time to sink in. When they do, her cheeks flame.

She starts in on him as soon as he slides back into the driver’s seat. “You are so infuriating, you know that? I swear, just when I think we could get along fine, you have to go and make a comment like _that_ —”

“I shouldn’t have come inside you,” he admits suddenly. “I planned for that to happen a little later on.”

“Wha— Oh. Uh, right. Later.” Rey isn’t sure what to do with her hands, “ _Later?_ ” 

His grin is predatory. “Like I said. You think I’m going to let you go now that I finally have you?” 

Butterflies take flight in her stomach. Is he seriously talking about getting her _pregnant?_ Already? She fans her overheated face. Holy shit. 

The idea of pregnancy itself is more than a little revolting—she's hardly mother material at this age—but she's always been _very_ interested in performing the act. She’s gotten off more times than she can count to the fantasy of a man rutting into her like a wild beast, forcing his seed deep into her pussy until it overflows and makes a sticky mess on the mattress. 

Her thighs clench, and she adjusts the hem of her sweater. “Ben. You can't just—”

“Oh, but I can, Rey,” he says matter-of-factly. “I can and I will get you pregnant with my babies. It's no longer a question of _if_ but _when._ ” Humming, Ben expertly maneuvers out of his reserved parking spot, ignoring Rey as she chokes and splutters. They pass Clyde in his security booth. He glances up from the pages of his magazine and jerks his head at Ben in the universal _bro_ nod. 

Rey bares her teeth and gives him the finger. Clyde rolls his eyes and drops his gaze dismissively. 

Ben, oblivious to their interaction, edges into rush hour traffic. The rain has abated somewhat, but it’s still coming down in torrents. She briefly checks the durability of her seat belt. For all she knows, he could be a horrendous driver. She's not willing to risk her life just because he knows what to do with his dick. 

Rey clears her throat. “What would you like to do to me? Right now, if you could do anything.” 

He doesn’t hesitate. “I’d fuck your mouth again.”

O- _kay_! She bites back a moan and squirms in her seat, unable to repress the image of her forced to her knees in some dark bedroom, her nose pushed into his taut stomach as he thrusts down her throat. The vision is so hot she has to struggle not to shove her hand down the front of her leggings.

_Be cool, you horny twat!_

Ben notices the agitated movement and reaches for her hand across the center console. She reluctantly lets him have it, which immediately proves to be a fantastic decision. He brings her hand to the seat of his pants. 

"Oh, what's this?" she asks innocently, staring straight ahead through the windshield. 

His cock nudges the palm of her hand, and she nearly grabs hold. She wants it—in her mouth, between her legs, in her various holes—and frankly, it’s just not _fair_ of him to tease her when he can’t deliver. 

“And I thought I was impatient,” he mutters, squeezing the hand on his crotch. Seeming pleased with himself, Ben flicks on the radio to a classical station. Prick.

“I hate you,” she grumbles, pouting.

“You know,” he says casually, “I would also really like to use that new toy of yours. What’s it called? Clit-something?” He grins.

“I _detest_ you.” 

“Slide it between those pretty little legs, get your pussy all slick and messy—”

“Ben,” she warns through viciously clenched teeth. She’s positively _throbbing_ now. 

“Before I slide it inside, nice and slow.” He pauses thoughtfully. “Or maybe hard and fast. You prefer that, right? Then I’ll probably put my dick in your other hole and see how long you last.” 

“I am going to _murder_ you.” 

They fly past the turn-off for her neighborhood, and Rey twists around, frowning. There’s old Maz on the corner, lounging by her stall of signature tomatoes. Nobody else is out in a downpour this bad, but Rey would recognize the woman’s pink straw hat anywhere.

“Ben, I’m back there.”

“I know.” He cuts sharply across two lanes of traffic to the angry blare of horns. 

Rey throws him a flat look. “Please tell me this isn’t kidnapping attempt number two.”

Ben’s forced to brake suddenly at a stoplight, and for a terrifying second the tires skid. His arm flies out and bars her against the seat, preventing her from jolting forward. She swallows, wide-eyed, as they coast to a stop. 

Rey gapes, dumbstruck. It doesn't make sense. His first instinct wasn’t to concentrate on the wheel—it was to _protect her_. That kind of crap doesn't happen outside of books and movies. 

“Fuck. Sorry, love.” He smiles sheepishly, a piece of dark hair flopping into his eyes. “I’m usually a better driver. You're...a bit of a distraction for me.”

“Oh, I can get out—” She reaches for her seatbelt, pretending to unclick herself and open the door. 

Ben’s hands are on hers immediately, their warm weight enough to freeze her in place. His eyes are dark, lips pressed into a firm, unamused line. 

“Kidding,” she says lightly, poking his cheek. Sheesh. 

“Stay with me,” he says in a low voice, dipping close enough to kiss the corner of her mouth. The gesture is suprisingly tender. 

She gulps, taken aback by his intensity. “Tonight?”

“...For starters.”

The light switches to green. Ben leans back in his seat after delivering another mind-melting kiss to the sensitive spot under her jaw and smoothly rejoins the chaos on the road. They’re both quiet as he navigates the rain-slicked roads and reckless city drivers. 

“By the way,” he adds once they hit an open stretch of highway, carefully tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. She nervously guides his hand back to the wheel. “You’re fired.” 

Rey laughs, then realizes with horror that he’s serious. “Erm...pardon?” 

“Conflict of interest.” He shrugs and pats the hand still lying in his lap. “Sorry, Rey. I’ll consider this your two weeks.” 

Her mouth drops open. Fury builds in her chest, and she rips her hand out of his grip, though not before seriously considering punching his dick. “How _dare_ you? You bloody—fucking— _arsehole_ —”

She gropes blindly for the door handle, and the car swerves as he reaches across the seat. There’s no one on this part of the road, thankfully. Not that Ben seems to care, but they're not in any immediate danger of collision. Well, not with any moving cars but perhaps a utility pole or fucking cement wall. 

“Rey! I’m just teasing!” Ben grabs her hand and tugs her around. She’s breathing heavily. “You think I would do that to you? After everything I’ve said?”

“I don’t know!” she exclaims, annoyed and embarrassed. “You’re confusing, Ben! I can’t keep up. Maybe none of this is surprising to you, but for _me_ it’s all new.” 

Ben sobers immediately. “I’m sorry. God, I'm fucking this up, aren't I?" There’s a fleeting moment when she thinks he might pull over to the side of the road, but instead he sets his jaw and says, “You drive me crazy, Rey. Literally insane. I lose myself when I’m with you, and that's...never happened to me before. Which isn't your fault, of course. My behavior is all on me." He huffs a frustrated breath. "I just automatically assume we’re on the same page because I know you so well, but—I realize you don’t really know me, do you?”

She shrugs, slightly mollified by this explanation. Insane, huh? “Tell me how much you like me again. And then a third time and maybe a fourth. I might consider forgiving you. But a fifth wouldn’t hurt, either.”

Ben pulls her arm back into his lap and slides his fingers neatly through hers, squeezing tight. “Listen, love. I was kidding, but since I _do_ plan for us to be long term...”

Her eyebrows skyrocket. “Oh, um, you do?”

“I do,” he says seriously, eyes on the road. “I'm dead serious about you, Rey. Eventually, our relationship will become a problem. We might have to—”

“I’ll leave the company,” she interrupts calmly. Any excuse to get out of such a mindless, dead-end job. “I’m not much of a copyrighter, anyway.” 

“You don’t have to do that.” Ben looks worried.

“I promise,” she says, squeezing his hand. “I’ve been getting antsy these last few weeks. I was thinking I’d wait until my one year anniversary and then start searching again.”

“I guess it’s a good thing I caught you when I did,” he says softly. Then a smile flickers at the corners of his mouth. “Not that—"

“—You would let me get away, yeah, yeah,” she finishes for him, scrunching her nose. “I’ve heard it all before, Mr. Solo.” 

He pretends to ignore this interruption. “The market’s competitive, but I’m sure you won’t have any problems finding another job.”

She peers at him suspiciously. “Why’s that?” 

“I know people.” 

Rey snorts. He doesn’t just know people—he _is_ people. His family owns the building where they work. In a few years when his father retires, he’ll inherit the billion-dollar family business. 

“Don’t worry.” He winks. “I hear the building next door is hiring.”

His family owns that one, too. 

Rey shakes her head. He really is a prick. A very handsome, possessive, caring prick who just so happens to fuck her just the way she likes. 

“So just to clarify," she says slowly. "I’m _not_ fired.”

“No. I would never fire you, love.” Ben raises their linked hands and nips the tip of her finger. “Besides, there are a few more things I need to show you in my office before you go.”

“Oh, yeah?” Rey bites her lip and leans back in her seat, blinking innocently. “What kind of things, Mr. Solo?”

“You’ll see,” he promises darkly. “And no more of this after hours bullshit. I want you in my office at ten A.M. sharp on Monday, Miss Niima.” 

“Another meeting?”

Ben kisses her wrist, and his hand tightens on hers as they pull into his swanky neighborhood. “You could say that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **apologies for the long delay—I didn’t want to write this anymore 😂 not as smutty as my usual but I hope the ending’s satisfying anyway!**

**Author's Note:**

> ~~say hi! (or come yell at me)~~  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/naboojakku)  
> [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/naboojakku/?hl=en)
> 
> **OTHER WORKS**
> 
> Fluff
> 
> [Saving What We Love](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23328586) (complete)  
> [#dirtytextchallenge](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25771213) (oneshot)  
> [The Artist's Garden At Giverny (1900)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24307039) (oneshot)  
> [Steal My Heart (There Are No Returns)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23701381) (oneshot)  
> [Only By Night](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23673103) (oneshot)  
> [Love Only Matters When We Bleed For It](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23415190) (complete)
> 
> Darkfics
> 
> [if you can't live without me, why aren't you dead yet?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25361551) (WIP)  
> [drenched](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25117876) (complete)  
> [I've Got A Dark Alley & A Bad Idea (That Says You Should Shut Your Mouth)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25814914) (oneshot)  
> [never bet the devil your head](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24609829) (complete)  
> [Chasm](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24962308) (complete)  
> [In Our Darkest Hour](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24810736) (complete)  
> [Stifle](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24724003) (oneshot)  
> [Aggressive Expansion](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26568556) (complete)  
> \+ more!


End file.
